Postscript to "Standing in Line at the Omelet Bar"

Towards the end of the conference, I rented a car and drove to Tomball to visit my family’s graves at the Klein Memorial Cemetery.  I stopped at a service station just outside of Tomball.  The roads had changed so much and the town had sprawled and built up to such an extent, I had to ask for directions.  The clerk didn’t know exactly how to get to Tomball’s main street, even though he was less than 2 miles away.  He’d never been there.  We asked the female clerk, and she said just keep going on the road I was on, but she thought I had a long drive ahead of me.  It turned out I was a few minutes away.  The car rental clerk had never heard of Tomball or Magnolia either.  They were all from some place else and had just landed here in their service industry jobs, and they didn’t know where they were anymore than I did.  I saw the past everywhere I looked. They saw the job right in front of them in the place where they were, but they didn’t know where they were.  

I bought yellow roses and drove to Klein Memorial Cemetery.  It was easy to find my grandparent’s graves.  My grandmother had placed them together on the back property line, right next to the pine trees and placed a marble bench there for her to sit in the many years she tended my grandfather’s grave.  Close by were my mother’s, Aunt Cecile’s, and cousin Jodie’s graves.  I put roses on them all, and sat on the bench for awhile, remembering.

Then I drove to the remnant of the family property, bought by a real estate company and now for sale again.  It was the back part of the property, where my grandmother moved after my grandfather and cousin Jodie died.  I took the road past Beyette Road off of Highway 249.  The road ran around the ball fields where families were watching their kids play, and then curved around through the woods for a mile or so past a few houses and became a gravel road in the woods.  A few hundred feet later, I turned left into what had been my grandmother’s long driveway.  The road ran straight past new houses sprouting in the woods and came to a forked curve, one fork going to her neighbor Stan’s house, and one fork going to my grandmother’s.  I parked to the left of the skinny sweet gum tree in the middle of the fork and got out and took in the air--sweet pine and red dirt and humidity mixing all together in that familiar smell that meant I was home.

The gate to the property was locked, and no one was around, so I climbed over it, like I had done many times on many gates around the property when it had been much vaster and I was much younger.

The house was gone.  The large workshop gone.  But the water tank my grandparents had built was there, and my grandfather’s original welding shop was there in its expanded shape as an outbuilding.  I wondered if his mushroom cellar/museum was still there under an embankment by the back lake, but I didn’t venture that far.

It was enough for me to stand in the place where my grandmother’s house had stood, built by expanding upon my grandfather’s cabin, where he kept his flying memorabilia and old farm tools, another kind of museum.

I stood and looked out at the lake built by my grandfather and uncle and father. They dug it out around a natural spring on the property.  It was a pond really, but we called it a lake. They had also dug other smaller lakes on the property, but this was the main one, the most beautiful one, the one their house and the cabin, which my grandmother turned into her retirement home, had faced.

Grasses and wildflowers and bits of glass and leftover home dotted the ground. The grass was a little high, and I had worn sandals.  I thought of the many copperheads I had seen my grandmother kill and the water moccasins I had so often been warned about, and decided to simply take in the view.  

I remembered all the life that had passed there in my family, all of the generations that I knew, and how much I loved that land, that place, and those people, and how much fun it had been and how heartbreaking too, and I was grateful.  

Butterflies flitted.

A breeze blew up off the lake and up the slight rise where I stood.

The real estate flyer on the gate said, “One of a kind property!  Stunning, breathtaking views on this waterfront acreage.  Pond is huge surrounded by beautiful rolling terrain, trees, and an absolute peaceful seclusion while close to Magnolia shopping and all amenities.  View the wildlife, fish, listen to the breeze bustling through the trees, or take a horse ride. Building could be a workshop or finish out for weekend cabin or guest quarters.  Located at end of road tucked back among the peaceful ambience this beauty offers.”

It was all true.

Standing in Line at the Omelet Bar

In early April 2016, I flew from San Diego to Houston for the Conference on College Composition and Communication.  The conference was held in downtown Houston at the Hilton next to the Convention Center, and thousands of writing teachers from colleges and universities were attending.  

On my first morning, I went down to the lobby to check out the food options.  There were two:  Starbucks or the hotel restaurant.  The line at Starbucks was out the door, and I had less than 30 minutes, so I headed to the hotel restaurant and plopped down $21.95 for the breakfast buffet and was grateful for my teacher's union’s funding of at least part of the cost of my breakfast.

The food on the buffet had been sitting for some time--most people were in line at the Starbucks--English teacher salaries, and all that.  But the cook at the omelet bar was cooking up omelets to order, and over I headed.  A long table was set up with bowls of spinach leaves, mushrooms, tomatoes, onions, olives, peppers, cheeses, broccoli, ham, chicken, tofu, and other delights.  I was to choose among these offerings, assembling the items I wanted on my plate to hand them to the cook.

As I grazed along the table, piling my plate high, a sign pulled me up short. 

There in the center of the table set up like a centerpiece on an altar was a tablet device, propped up as a display.  Was it showing delicious omelets?  No.  Menus or pictures of vegetables and meats?  No.  Flowers?  No.  Information of any sort, or at least something pretty?  No.  What someone at the hotel had chosen to display at that very moment on their newfangled tablet was a grainy black-and-white photo of a small-town street scene from the 1930s or so, barely a tree in sight on the street, a car or two, and not much else--it was a very plain town apparently, with not much to show for itself.  In big letters across the photo the word “Tomball” was scrawled across the top. 

I laughed at the randomness and weirdness of it.  How many people in this swank Hilton by the convention center in downtown Houston would know or care about Tomball?  What would it mean to them?  If they noticed it at all, these busy professionals from states like Ohio, Indiana, New York, California, New Mexico, Washington, Pennsylvania, Oregon, and Alaska, would probably just think it was an odd attempt to romanticize old Texas. 

Maybe some would even wonder why this fancy restaurant would put such a strange picture among the food offerings.  If so, they may have noticed other bits of Texas nostalgia among the decorations in the restaurant, and maybe they even saw through the pitiful attempt to make an otherwise completely typical American convention hotel be Texan, because everything in Texas has to be Texan--that’s the Texas way.

Texas may not have invented branding, but it had caught on and branded everything it possibly could.  The convention center was painted red, white, and blue, the colors of the Texas state flag, from floor to ceiling, every door, every nook, every cranny.  The hotel gift shop only carried red, white, and blue Texas branded tchotchkes and clothing.

Would anyone that morning even be able to guess from the photo that Tomball was the name of a town about 30 miles north of Houston?  Or would they not even see the name, or would they think it was a person with a possibly laughable name?

Maybe some force put the picture there for me.  Because even though I grew up in Louisiana, and have lived all of my adult life in St. Louis, New York City, and now San Diego, I know Tomball, Texas. 

To help me digest the picture and all it meant to me, after lunch I went to the park across from the hotel, took off my shoes, and stood on the grass, my feet connecting with the land of my birth, of my ancestors, on both sides of my family: my mother’s family—the Beyette’s—to the northwest of Houston in the piney woods of Magnolia, Texas; my father’s mother’s family, the Pollard’s of Edna, Texas, to the southwest of Houston; and my father’s father’s family, due west in central Texas—the Barnes’ of Yoakum, Glenrose, Hearne, Calvert, and unnamed spots in the road.  My parents met in Eagle Lake, 66 miles west of Houston.  I was born in Wharton, 60 miles southwest of Houston.

Tomball played a major role in this, my family’s story.

In the middle of the depression, probably about the time the photo was taken, my grandfather Cecil Beyette went to high school in Tomball and worked there, to put himself through school and support his family. His father and youngest brother had both been killed within months of each other.  His father, Thomas, was a deputy sheriff, and he was killed in 1930 by a prisoner he was bringing to jail for stealing tires.  His youngest brother, named Thomas after his father, was killed a few months later after diving into a swimming hole.  

Cecil’s mother Janie was traumatized and never recovered, and Cecil set out to support her, his other brother, and himself.  They lived in Magnolia, Texas, about 15 miles from Tomball.  Magnolia didn’t have a high school.  It was a sawmill town and a crossroads, with a few houses scattered here and there.  Tomball had a real economy with stores, gas stations, better jobs than those in the sawmill, and schools.  He worked his way through high school and got his degree.  He went on to be a daring pilot in the early days of Texas crop-dusting, helping to develop the Grumman Ag-Cat and serving as a flight instructor in World War II, among his many adventures and accomplishments. 

Cecil married Eloise Williams, who he met walking on the sidewalk in Atmore, Alabama, where he’d gone to fly crop-dusters.  He thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and a week after he returned to Magnolia, he sent her a train ticket and asked her to come marry him.  She did.  They had four children, naming their youngest son after the two Thomases, and their youngest daughter Cecile, after my grandfather.  Their first daughter and second born child was my mother, Gale Beyette.

Until 2009 when my grandmother died, I went to Magnolia, Texas, at least once a year, and every time I did,  I also went to Tomball.  It is vital to the geography of my maternal inheritance.

In 1996 I got my first real job in St. Louis, Missouri, when Bill Seyle hired me and trained me as a speechwriter, partially because his family was also from Magnolia, Texas, and our grandparents had been best friends.  His father told him that his earliest memory in life was when my great grandfather Thomas had been killed.  He said he woke up in the middle of the night to see his mother by his side holding a Colt 45 because someone had shot Mr. Beyette, and the killer was on the loose and the men of the town were all out looking for him. 

I met Bill in St. Louis, through Sharon Hall, who cut my hair and his.  I was looking for a job.  He was looking for a writer to help him with his overload of work, and Sharon thought we would like each other.  We did, and he took a chance on me, forever changing my life. 

Neither of us had any idea that we had a shared heritage until he asked me for writing samples and commented that I had Texas in all of them, and asked if I was from Texas.  He said he had never met anyone who had even heard of Magnolia until he met me.  

When we discovered we both had family there, he called his mother, and I called my grandmother, and we heard the family stories.  My grandmother told me she painted his grandmother’s kitchen, and that our grandfathers surveyed the land all around those parts together.  They probably surveyed land together in Tomball.  Bill hired me.

My job with Bill Seyle eventually helped me land a job with Information Builders, a software company in New York City, which eventually led me to where I am now.

The clock radio my grandmother gave me when I graduated from high school and which I took to college with me and used until it died about 25 years later came from Tomball, from Worthley’s store, where my grandmother bought her appliances most of her life.  The radio's alarm trained me to take 20 minute naps in college because it had the time marked in 20 minute segments on the dial.  It’s a skill I still use every chance I get.  I remember standing with her in the store many, many times. 

I also remember many occasions when my Aunt Cecile took my brothers and sisters and I to the big town of Tomball to one of the few eating establishments around--Dairy Queen--for their Dilly Bars, vanilla ice cream coated with chocolate.  

And I remember going to Klein’s funeral home in Tomball for my grandfather, my grandmother, my cousin Jodie, my Aunt Cecile, and my mother.

This is what I felt when I stood in line at the omelet bar, and the screen said, “Tomball.” 

There is a history there, and I know it.  It is not romantic. It is not nostalgic or sentimental.  It is real, and it is in my bones and in my blood. 

Sightings on the Edge of the World: Mothers and Children

Today, February 15th, is my mother's birthday.  Had she lived 2 more years in this world, she would have been 78 years old, and I am sure worrying all of her children to no end.  Instead, I miss her with all my heart and soul, in a way that I never did when she was living.  Most of the time I held her at arm's length and sought to differentiate myself from her.  Since she's been gone, though, I have felt how alive she is in me, and welcomed all the similarities, even those I disdained previously.  Now I love her the way a mother loves a child.

One recent morning as I walked on the cliffs above the beach in Del Mar, California, I walked past a mother and daughter in a perfect tableau:  The mother sitting on a bench facing the ocean, her small toddler age daughter sitting on her thighs, the two gazing in each other's eyes in perfect joy and contentment.

I remembered times when my mother looked at me that way, and I longed to return her gaze full on, like that little one did, and then for the two of us to sit side by side and look out at the ocean together, enjoying the clean, crisp, sweet morning air; the glowing pastel blues and pinks and yellows of the early morning sky; the roar of the ocean coming in and flowing out.

Here are a few photos to honor my mother, Gale Louise Beyette.

Me and Mom

 Mom and Kimberly

 Mom and Sharlon

 Mom with Trevon on her lap, me, Sharlon, and Kim at the Pollard's, my father's family home

 Mom with Leyette and Kayla

 Mom with Emily, Trevon's daughter

 Mom with Kayla and Aaron, Leyette's children

Mom with Kimberly and her children: Angelica on Kim's lap, Danielle by Mom, and Jared

Mom with Jared, Kimberly's son

  Mom with her mother Eloise Beyette, Kim and Kim's Daughters, Danielle and Angelica

Giving Thanks

On Thanksgiving morning, I walked out to the cliffs looking over the Pacific.  The wind was whipping the waves into a roaring frenzy.  It was cold.  The clouds were full and active.  The water reflected all the colors of sky.  The tide was very high, running up the sides of the cliffs.  It was a beautiful day.  

I am so thankful to be here.  

I never once had a thought or dream of living in Southern California, although I do remember once about 30 years ago thinking it would be nice to live by a beach.  Nevertheless, somehow, through a wild dance of circumstances well beyond my control, although I played my part, I wound up here, and every day, I am grateful.  

I talked to my father in Zachary, Louisiana, and he said the tides were hide on the Gulf coast too.  The oceans and skies connect us.  

Thank you to everyone I have ever known for the richness of this life.

Listening to Trees

I wrote a prosy poem, and Wayne Mareci liked it, took photos to go with it, and turned it into this photo essay on Medium.Com.  Thank you, Wayne!

Listening to Trees

Here's a video of me in my new home. Thank you to my friend Barry for the vision, artistry, and skill to make this video.  Hope you enjoy it!

PS Barry entitled this video "Portrait of a Seeker."  I have never really understood, or even liked, that title.  I don't consider myself a seeker.  Maybe some would say a wanderer, but I see myself more as an enthusiastic appreciator and explorer of life, who faithfully makes her way.  I would just title this video "Portrait of Eberly in 2015."  And leave off the labels.

Unexpected Delights # 2: Best Tomatoes Ever!

I just had the best tomato of my life.  Seriously.  And I bought it from a grocery store.

I grew up on homegrown tomatoes from the rich brown soil of Louisiana, the red dirt of East Texas, and the black dirt of coastal Texas farmland.  I watched my mother’s father carefully tend his tomatoes, thumping vines with his thumb or the end of a garden hose to help them pollinate.  I ate my mother’s mother’s fried green tomatoes in cornmeal batter and her cucumber and tomato salads.  I ate my mother’s tomato sandwiches with tomatoes from my father’s garden.  I ate tomatoes from gardens all over Zachary, Louisiana.  And I have eaten countless local heirloom tomatoes from farmer’s markets from Vermont, the Hamptons, New York State, and California.  I get tomatoes almost every week from the Garden of Eden CSA farm.  They are all delicious.  I love tomatoes, not quite as much as watermelon, but still…I love tomatoes.

Not the common red thing called a tomato at most grocery stores and restaurants.  I haven’t eaten those for years.

Still, tonight I had a new tomato experience: dry-farmed tomatoes.

These tomatoes are grown without any irrigation.  They have to dig their roots deep to get their sustenance.  They seek the water far underground.

And the taste, the taste, oh, I have never tasted such a rich, sweet, deep, complex tomato.

There is a Vedic chant that translates, “May I be like the cucumber that when it’s ripe falls from the vine.” 

I’d like to propose a new chant, “May I be like the tomato that digs its roots deep for the sustenance that’s already there and tastes like heaven.”

For the prosaic-minded parts of ourselves, here’s an article about dry-farmed tomatoes:

http://www.sfgate.com/homeandgarden/goldengategardener/article/Dry-farmed-tomatoes-how-to-grow-them-3169535.php

And for those of my readers who live in San Diego, I got them at Jimbo’s.